


Piano Lessons

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Piano, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is Enjolras’ hot piano teacher, and Enjolras is taken away with him. (Enjolras is 17 in this fic. Age of consent is 16 here, and 15 in France, but if 17 makes you uncomfy, do not read).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piano Lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Inspired By This Piece Of Art](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/31771) by Weisbrot. 



Enjolras was pacing in the backroom of the Musain as he waited. He drummed his fingers on his trousers, and God, for all the fucking embarrassment of it as he’d passed his friends in the front room, he was in his school  _uniform_ still, because Enjolras’ father, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that the lesson should be scheduled so soon after his last lesson that Enjolras had had to  _run_ down to the Musain.

And God, as if he needed that reminder of being stuck in an idiotic fucking private school, and that extra reminder of the other amis that yes, their most passionate member was a good three years younger than Courfeyrac, and  _six_ years younger than Combeferre and Feuilly.

He liked to pretend it didn’t matter, liked to  _say_ it didn’t matter, but it did, and it was embarrassing. He pulled his blazer off over his head, threw it down, and Combeferre said to him quietly, “You don’t need to worry so mu-” but Enjolras cut him off with an irritated sound.

"Where  _is_ he?” He growled. He’d had to concede to some of his father’s wishes - if he wanted to remain in the city, he had to restart his piano lessons, had to bring up his grades, had to appear at at least one function of his family’s a month.

Enjolras  _abhorred_ it. He had hated piano lessons when he’d had them before, hated the way the old man had snapped at him and told him he should practice,  _practice,_ because God fucking forbid Enjolras had something better to do.

"Perhaps he didn’t run to this appointment in a flushed fury like you did." Combeferre said gently, ever the calming force. Enjolras’ best friend, six years his senior.

"Come on, Enjolras, take it easy." Courfeyrac said lightly, affectionately elbowing the blond in the side, not hard. "You might like it!"

"I don’t even  _like_ pianos. Or music. Or fucking failures who have to end up teaching pianos because they can’t get just concern themselves with their own fucking degr-“

"You would be Enjolras, then?" His head snapped up, and he regarded the man in front of him. "My name’s Grantaire Bernard:" He dropped the  _d_ at the end. ”I’m your new piano teacher. You’re a very passionate young fellow, aren’t you?” The sarcasm was clear, and Enjolras' cheeks tinged just slightly.

Courfeyrac snorted, and Enjolras read Bossuet’s murmur to Joly of “my bad luck is catching” on his lips.

"Fuck you." Grantaire grinned at him.

"Sounds unprofessional: I like it." Enjolras’ cheeks flushed a bright scarlet at the flirtation, and he noted in the corner of his eye the way Combeferre stiffened and regarded Grantaire sternly, but also the way Jehan’s face lit up, as it always did at the slightest hint of romance. "We’re booked for the backroom of this place, yeah?"

"Yes." Enjolras said stiffly, pulling his hair-tie out under pretence of shaking out his hair, put it hid his face sufficiently as he stormed from the front room of the Musain and into the back one.

"Don’t worry, kid, my dad hates me too."

"Don’t call me  _kid_.” Enjolras spat, moving over to the piano and opening its lid. The Musain had had the grand piano in its back room for as long as Enjolras could remember: he did not know why, but merely concerned himself with the fact that using the piano in the back of the Musain meant not having to go home to take his lessons.

"Hey." Enjolras whipped around to see the other man looking serious, and for the first time Enjolras took note of his physical appearance. His hair was dark and messy, and there were slight bags under his eyes that betrayed a tendency towards not sleeping, his lips were chapped, and he looked…

Not good. Enjolras would not have said Grantaire was ugly by any stretch of the means, because Enjolras had seen ugly people, and they were the men his father kept social circles with, the women that talked well to his mother and gossiped if she so much as turned her back away from them for a moment and a half, the older men at charity functions that let their eyes linger on Enjolras’ backside a little too long and then changed their minds after glancing at his father.

Grantaire was not ugly, not like that. But he looked haggard, tired.

"You were wrong about the degree. I’m not doing one." Grantaire spoke in a gentle tone with Enjolras, and Enjolras’ second realization was that while Grantaire was somewhat broader than Enjolras in the shoulder, and perhaps built more heavily, Enjolras was a good deal taller than him. Enjolras stepped closer as Grantaire spoke.

Enjolras’ own body was lithe and muscular in the way a swimmer’s was, from running and aerobics as opposed to lifting weights. Grantaire seemed to have more heft about him, and Enjolras noted muscles - not extreme, or even  _particularly_ muscled in the way Bahorel was, but still considerable - under the brunet’s clothes.

And God, were those clothes ridiculous. Grantaire wore a grey shirt, and overtop that, a green waistcoat. It was traditional, too, and while it suited the other man, hugging his form in a way Enjolras definitely did not and  _should_ not have found appealing, it was old, archaic even.

Grantaire’s trousers and his shoes were of a similar, traditional nature, and even in dressing in that fashion, he seemed dishevelled.

"Are you, uh, with me?" Enjolras became suddenly aware that he had been silent and not acknowledging what Grantaire was saying for a longer amount of time than was truly polite.

"Go on."

"My dad hates me too, but it’s not my fault your dad wants me here, so you don’t need to take it out on me." There was a pause. " _Kid.”_

Enjolras let out a soft snort despite himself. “You're still taking his  _money_  because-”

“Because money is a means to an end in our economic system and attempting to do without would not only be difficult but painful and potentially harmful.” Enjolras blinked at him. “Sit down, and let me teach you.” Enjolras moved over to the stool at the piano, dropping into it with a short huff.

Grantaire slid more than he settled into the stool beside him, and Enjolras was overtly conscious of Grantaire's hip pressing against his own, of the other man's shoulder warm and a little below Enjolras'. “How old are you?” Enjolras found the words tumbling from his lips before he'd really thought about them, and even though he told himself it didn't matter, yes, it  _did_.

“Nineteen.” Grantaire said smoothly, in a light tone. “You okay to do some scales to warm up?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras stared at his fingers on the piano, vaguely recalling doing scales six or seven years ago, but now he could only do some very simple melodies.

Grantaire pushed Enjolras' hands aside, gently, and Enjolras found himself thinking of how  _warm_  the other man's hands were on his own cool ones. Grantaire's hands moved rapidly across the keys, playing out the ascending scale, and Enjolras watched with parted lips, considering the obvious skill in those hands, and noticing a smudge of blue paint on the back of Grantaire's right one, and of the slight bruises on his knuckles.

“You try.” Enjolras' scale was clumsy, but Grantaire played through it again and again, until it was coming out with a vague fluency, and then he had Enjolras practise an arpeggio.

“What is the point of this?” Enjolras muttered to himself, hating his father not for the first time.

“What's the point?” Grantaire repeated, regarding Enjolras with an expression that was almost quizzical for a few moments. Then, he put his own hands on the keys, and began to play. It was Chopin, Enjolras recognized in a vague fashion in the back of his mind, but all he could concentrate on was the ease that Grantaire played with, how long his fingers were, how skilled.

Enjolras' mouth was dry and he felt something stir in his stomach, and God, fuck,  _no_ , he hadn't had an inappropriate boner since he was thirteen, shit, fuck, and that part of puberty should have been completely fucking  _over_  with by now.

He crossed his legs, suddenly wishing he'd kept his uniform jacket on despite its idiotic embroidered braid and ridiculous colour scheme of red and blue, because at least  _this_  shit wouldn't be so obviously visible.

“That's nice.” He managed to bite out, and Grantaire nodded before taking his hands from the keys and moving to clasp the piano lid closed, reaching up to unpin the wing of the grand piano and close it up. As he leaned forwards, his shirt rode up with his waistcoat tight to the bunched fabric, revealing pale skin and the line of Grantaire's spine.

Enjolras barely stopped himself from releasing a short, almost whimpered noise.

“But yeah, Enjolras, I'll need you to practise this week if you can, yeah? Your dad pretty much wants you to show you're actually learning something every month, so we'll be covering different pieces.” Enjolras wanted to show off, be defiant, refuse to do so.

He also wanted another hour next week, doing  _this_ , with Grantaire warm and comfortable next to him. “Are you going?” Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, looking a little thoughtful.

“Well, I kinda figured I'd have a coffee here before heading home, but uh, I didn't realize you were a regular.” Grantaire said, seeming more than a little sheepish. “I don't really want to, uh, hang around if your friends are going to make fun of you.”

“My friends don't make fun of me.” Enjolras said bluntly. “They wouldn't be my friends if that were the case.” There was teasing, this much was true, but Enjolras could not deal with being mocked by those he trusted, and thusly there was never any honest derision between any of them, despite the range of ages, careers, and skillsets.

Thank fucking God, Enjolras' boner had gone the fuck down, and he could talk reasonably without having to worry about it. He moved into the main room of the café, going to sit in the chair he'd settled in before, but Courfeyrac grabbed him by the hips and bundled Enjolras into his broad lap, drawing a yelp of surprise from Enjolras and then laughter.

He wrestled with the other man, trying to bat away the other's hands as Courfeyrac attempted to pull Enjolras' phone out of his pocket, laughing, but not nearly so loud so as to compete with the older man's guffaws. Enjolras managed to wrench himself out of the other's grip but fell forwards, getting caught by Feuilly as he dropped.

Courfeyrac held up Enjolras' phone and did a little, if ridiculous, victory dance, looking obscenely pleased with himself, but when Enjolras held out his hand, Courfeyrac handed him his phone back readily enough. Grantaire watched all of this with some interest, amused by the interaction. Once Enjolras' phone was back in its owner's grip, Courfeyrac took notice of him, and  _beamed_.

“Hallo there, attractive piano player.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, but suddenly Courfeyrac had stood, offering his hand and a toothy grin. “Let me get you a cocoa. Or a coffee, a tea, a muffin perhaps. And then, dear God, let me get you against a wall.” Grantaire laughed, giving the other man his hand readily and shaking his hand.

“You're not my type, man, but thanks for the offer.”

“Straight?” Courfeyrac asked mournfully, but Grantaire shook his head.

“Nah, I just prefer blonds, and not so much, uh, loud-mouthed  _wrestlers_.” Courfeyrac's grin grew wider, and became in no way self-depreciating. Enjolras adjusted the grip he'd had on Feuilly's shoulder, regarding Grantaire with interest. Combeferre noticed both, and tightened his lips.

“Alas.” He said. “Let me grab you a coffee, anyway. Jehan?” The poet looked up from the sketchpad, regarding a baffled Grantaire for a few moments.

“Black coffee, no sugar, with whipped cream atop.” He pulled a face. “That's not right, man.” Grantaire blinked at him, mouth open and betraying his surprise.

“How did you-”

“Don't even question it.” Feuilly advised, pushing Enjolras into his chair. “We can't figure it out, and he won't tell us.” Jehan offered a serene smile.

“Sometimes life has its mysteries.” He said brightly, before turning back to the sketch in front of him. Courfeyrac moved towards the front, ordering Grantaire's coffee, and Grantaire settled into a spare chair, alongside Jean Prouvaire, so he could lean forwards and examine the sketch upon his knee. “You're an artist. Just oil painting, sketching and piano, or..?

“I like watercolours well enough, but oil's where my skills lie. Sort of.” Grantaire added in an oddly discomforting afterthought, and Jehan hummed thoughtfully.

“How often do you box?” Jehan asked, and Grantaire let out a garbled noise.

“How do you know-”

“The bruises on your knuckles come from punching bag.” Jehan said simply. “That one is obvious.”

“It's not obvious in the least.” A large, muscular man pointed out, and Jehan scoffed.

“Feuilly?”

“I would say it's somewhat easy to see.” The addressed answered non-committally. “Grantaire, I'm Feuilly. This is Bahorel, Combeferre, the idiot who threw himself at you is Courfeyrac, this is Jean Prouvaire-”

“You can me Jehan.”

“And this is Joly and Bossuet.”

“And you're all Enjolras' friends?”

“Not really by choice.” Bahorel said, but good-naturedly, and this earned him a joking elbow to his side.

“Aren't you, uh, a bit older than him?” Enjolras bristled, but Combeferre spoke.

“I'm six years his senior. Courfeyrac is second youngest at twenty.

“Seventeen with twenty-three year old friends.” Grantaire gave a low whistle. “You must be pretty damn mature to handle these guys. And Courfeyrac.”

“Hey! He can't start hanging out with us if he's not gonna be on my side!” Courfeyrac handed Grantaire his coffee all the same, dropping back into his seat. Bossuet was grinning a little, murmuring quietly with Joly as they watched Grantaire. It had never taken long for the amis to accept new “members” (although they were hardly an organization) to their little gatherings.

There was almost a natural gravitation to those like-minded, and while they certainly disagreed on a dozen issues, many, the gist, they did agree on. Grantaire faded into the background from here, the movement conscious, as if it were practised over time, and while Combeferre and Jean Prouvaire both noticed, the others forgot Grantaire when dropping into the conversation.

“And that's just straight up  _not_  the case – anarchy, in the sense of absolute freedom-”

“Absolute freedom of the strongest and uninhibited, impinging on the rights and liberties of other societal members, how is that different to our own society?”

“ _No_ , fine, absolute freedom so long as one's actions place no attack, oppression or destruction on another person's liberties or possessions,  _but_ -”

“You want an anarchist society? Then how would those law breakers be tried?” Enjolras stopped short, brow furrowing. He did not seem frustrated by Feuilly's constant rebukes, but rather, liberated by them. Grantaire was not sure he'd ever seen a man so happy to argue in his life. Grantaire found he rather liked the expression on the boy, seeing those pink lips tightened in concentration as he thought very carefully.

“Then not anarchy.”

“Finally.” Feuilly said, throwing his hands to the air in silent worship of a Heavenly God, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac both laughed a little at the gesture.

“But freedom is important.” Enjolras maintained. “Freedom of the  _people_ -”

“Do you believe humanity to be inherently flawed?” Jehan's words were an interruption, but with his serene tone and his address to every other ami, it did not feel that way. “I do not. However, in order to build a new society, one must do so upon the ashes of the old one – cinders of this society would remain if we were to rebuild from the ground up, as has happened in so many revolutions previously. Lingering ideals of greed and cruelty would remain, because that's how we are raised, or at least, conditioned to behave. You would have to ensure every member of society was held to  _some_  standard, else anarchy would erupt without society's permission, and the world would suffer for it.”

Enjolras was pretty when he thought, Grantaire thought. That probably wasn't the best thing to consider, giving that he was meant to be tutoring the kid, rather than, well. Trying to fuck him.

“But creating a government would just be an open platform  _for_  corruption like ours.”

“An open government?” Bahorel suggested.

“An open government. Open to all people, on any level. Equal opportunities.” Courfeyrac coughed out the word  _communist_ , and Enjolras glared at him as a few of the others laughed.

“That word literally means sharing.”

“Name one occasion where it's worked for the happiness of the people.” Feuilly said, and Enjolras huffed.

“Cuba.”

“Lots of Cubans want capitalist stuff, though. Like, Coca-Cola and shit.”

“Yeah, but they don't not have Coca-Cola because Cuba has designated it as evil, they don't have it because the Americans won't trade with them! Cuba would quite happily trade with America, which the US won't take because they don't fit in with their idea of a democracy.”

“Enjolras, Cuba has banned the sale of  _toasters_  as a bourgeois product.” Bahorel said, looking amused.

“Well, they are. I mean, we don't need toasters.” Courfeyrac said, not unreasonably.

“Exactly!” Enjolras said, pointing to Courfeyrac, but the brunet put his hands up.

“Whoa there, tiger, I still think you're full of shit. I'm just taking on an anti-toaster position.” Enjolras snorted despite himself, and the lot of them laughed. “Cuba isn't democratic.”

“It's democratic but in a different way.”

“Enjolras, they only have one political party.” Combeferre pointed out.

“I'm not saying they're  _perfect_. But they do consider the rights of their citizens-”

“Who have no money because everything is state-owned.” Enjolras closed his mouth, and regarded Grantaire.

“Well, I- like I said, I'm not saying it's  _perfect_ -”

“Humanity isn't perfect. You're not going to get your precious utopia in this lifetime, or anyone else's.”

“That attitude is just fucking lazy.” Enjolras spat. “An excuse not to do anything!”

“A way to avoid classical disappointment.” Grantaire corrected in a light tone. “It's called realism. Doesn't mean one isn't trying to change things: you're just accepting that things aren't going to change in a day, and that some things will never change at all.”

Enjolras was silent. Courfeyrac watched Grantaire with a look of new suspicion as Feuilly leaned forwards, murmuring in Grantaire's ear, “You know, it's pretty hard to stump him like that. Kudos.” The conversation picked up again at Bahorel's prompt, moving onto lighter ideas, of poeticisms about his apparent mistress, with Jehan joined in with agreeably, lauding this woman's charms with an expression of complete and utter delight.

Combeferre put his hand on Grantaire's shoulder, and he looked up, regarding the bespectacled man with raised eyebrows. “Cigarette?” He offered, though not, perhaps, in a friendly fashion. “Come outside with me.” Grantaire followed despite his reluctance to stand out in the biting cold, and especially despite his reluctance to leave his gaze upon Enjolras' interested expression, the way he seemed both fascinated and detached all at once as Bahorel talked of his girlfriend, and then as of Joly and Bossuet talked of theirs.

Combeferre offered Grantaire a cigarette once they were outside, lighting it with a casual flick of his lighter. He didn't take his own from the packet, and dropped the silver, initialled box into his pocket again.

“You're his teacher.”

“His tutor.” Grantaire corrected, taking a slow drag from the cigarette as he clutched it between his forefinger and thumb, and Combeferre hummed. “I'm not going to do anything.” He said quietly.

“ _You_  aren't going to be the problem.” Combeferre said, letting out a soft laugh. “Trust me, Grantaire, there won't be an issue of you taking advantage. He's two years your junior and often feels like three years my senior. Indulge him or refuse him as you wish, but if you indulge him, don't underestimate him.”

“He's a kid-”

“He's not that.” Combeferre said lightly, hands dropping into his pockets. “Enjolras is many things, but I wouldn't call him a child. I was going to tell you not to hurt him, if he decides to throw himself at you.”

“He's not-”

“Oh, he's interested. You should have seen his crush on Feuilly.” Combeferre said point-blankly, and Grantaire blinked at him.

“He dated Feuilly?”

“Oh, no. Feuilly wouldn't indulge him. If he was five years older, or three years, even, he might have allowed it, but no, they didn't date.” Combeferre said, and his tone remained insufferably airy, casual. “Enjolras was quite the spectacle.” Grantaire swallowed, and he shouldn't have felt jealous like this, he should not have felt  _possessive._  “You should. Your ages are closer. He likes you. And if you hurt him, I'll set you aflame.” Combeferre tapped his breast pocket thoughtfully, and Grantaire heard the clink of his lighter against the cigarette tin.

Grantaire swallowed. “But he's my student-”

“He's a person you're tutoring.” Combeferre corrected dryly, the way Grantaire had to him a few minutes ago, and Grantaire's cheeks flushed. “If you want him, but you're worried, let him come to you. Trust me, it shan't take long.”

“Has he thrown himself at you, as well?” Combeferre laughed.

“No. He couldn't handle me and Courfeyrac at once.”

“You and Courfeyrac are-”

“Quite. Come, finish your cigarette. It's bitterly cold out here.” Grantaire grinned a little, and he stubbed out the butt, throwing it into a bin.

\---

Three more piano lessons, one each week, went without incident. Enjolras became flustered by Grantaire's presence and by the deft movements of his hands, was taken aback by his skill on the keys, and he learned a short piece. Each time after, his fingers ached for the exercise, but he still began to practise for hours a week, wanting to improve. “Wanting to please.” Courfeyrac had said, looking far too clever about it for Enjolras' liking, but he couldn't object.

And then Grantaire came in for the fifth lesson, and he was only wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a thin shirt, and Enjolras was suddenly far more eager to get him into the backroom. As soon as the door closed he had the older boy pressed against the door, his lips fervently seeking out Grantaire's as his hands reached to tangle themselves in Grantaire's unruly mess of hair, and the brunet choked out a noise, pressing in for more.

“This is not what I'm meant to be teaching you.” Grantaire said, even as he crowded Enjolras back across the room, throwing him onto the piano stool before dropping to his knees between the other's legs to unzip his trousers and get at his  _cock_ , and God, Enjolras was letting out loud sounds, loud enough that those in the front room would be able to  _hear,_ damn it, but Grantaire couldn't hold himself back from wrapping a clever hand around Enjolras' cock and jacking the length of it.

“Don't need teaching, need you to fuck me, fuck me, fuck me-”

“Never think you can't learn more.” Grantaire purred, and then he dipped and put his mouth to Enjolras' cock, and the blond had never considered Grantaire's tongue possibly being just as dexterous as his fingers, but dear God, it  _definitely_  was. He arched up, hips bucking, and Grantaire just dipped lower, taking Enjolras into his  _throat_ , and nodding for Enjolras to fuck the warm, wet heat.

Enjolras came way too early, embarrassingly early, and Grantaire pulled back wiping the back of his mouth. “You can learn not to come so fast.” He said, and Enjolras' cheeks flushed red.

“That's not fair, you- you in your  _t-shirt_  and your jeans and your ass-” Grantaire was suddenly up and silencing Enjolras' mouth with his, capturing his tongue and his lips and his attention all at once – Enjolras' mind was a blank while Grantaire was kissing him, and he was unable to consider anything at all that wasn't hot clever movement against him.

“I've wanted to do this since I met you.” Grantaire said, running his hands up under Enjolras' shirt and playing over the skin, playing over his nipples with those clever, clever fingers, and Enjolras was arching, gasping. "Dreamt about getting my fingers all all over you, about making you scream and whimper."

Enjolras was already engaging in the latter, but the former he could certainly be easily convinced of. "Now, now, now-"

"No,  _not_  now, now, you're going to play the Goddamn piano. And then, I'm going to take you home, and I'm going to play  _you_." Enjolras choked out a noise, plaintively sprawling back and spreading his legs in a way he knew was enticing.

"Oh, come  _on,_ look at me, I'm so ready-"

" **Lesson**." Grantaire growled, but he was obviously affected, and while Enjolras tried to play Fur Elise, it was with Grantaire's mouth and fingers still roaming his neck and his hips. "That's an hour, we've done an hour, get up, come on." And Grantaire and Enjolras  _ran_  past the amis and down the street, leaving them bemused.

"Finally." Prouvaire said, sounding amused, and Bahorel laughed.

"It took him a while, didn't it?" Combeferre asked, and Feuilly shook his head, snorting.

"Piano lessons, my ass. He'll be teaching the kid something right different now." Courfeyrac said gleefully, and he removed his phone to text the blond "helpful tips". Feuilly took Courfeyrac's phone and edited the messages, but sent them off mostly intact, and Courfeyrac laughed as he looked through them again.

They were wrong. For the time being, Grantaire wasn't teaching Enjolras much. That could be left for later - for now, he was intent on making the blond scream, and so he did.


End file.
